Reunion Hill
by phantasmagorienne
Summary: It must have been late September when last I climbed Reunion Hill.' After war and famine ravage Rohan, a woman attempts to deal with her husband's death, and what he left behind.


**Author's Note:** This story took far longer to write than it should have. I scrawled out the whole framework of the story one night and my head didn't find my pillow until two in the morning, but it went through constant revisions and other insanity before I finally got what I wanted. I'm not entirely satisfied with the ending, somehow, but I'm afraid if I tweak it anymore something might snap. I'd be thrilled to hear your opinions on the matter. Eternal thanks to my unspeakably wonderful beta, **LadyMoriel**, who corrected my grammar, suggested names, and stuck with this story for so long. No one could wish for a more fantastically dedicated beta. As a side note, all the names are Anglo-Saxon, in keeping with Tolkien.

The song "Reunion Hill" is copyright Richard Shindell and Richard Shindell Songs. The version that sparked this story is the quietly simple live version on the album _Courier_. This is not a songfic, but if anyone has a problem with the lyrics being here, I shall take them down. I changed the first verse just a bit to make it fit in with the time period of my story—"I fell asleep on Indian Boulder" became "...the old grey boulder". Otherwise, all the words are his, and much gratitude is deserved.

**Reunion Hill  
**by Banui Rochon

_It must have been late September_  
_When last I climbed Reunion Hill  
__I fell asleep on the old grey boulder  
__And dreamed a dream I will not tell_

My worn hands testify to the years passed. It has been a long road. It is still a long road. And my heart still bleeds—less now than it did—when I ascend that lonely hill standing a quarter-fathom from my farm. Our farm, it was, and in my mind I still think of it such, but I learned long ago to let him go. At least on the outside.

It must have been October—no, late September when last I climbed Reunion Hill. After ten years I am not as virile as I once was, and the pilgrimage made my body ache more than it ever had before. But the pain in my grass-slashed legs compared nothing to the dull anguish that burnt coldly within me.

They say that I have recovered. I know that I have not. But I have learned to push down the pain, and the memories. It is only in the dark watches of some nights that my mask slips enough for me to remember, but it has been long since there were any tears. It is too hard and cold within me for tears. The sorrow only returns wholly to me in the blessed daytime when I gather the courage to climb this hill again, still-damp flowers clutched against my breast. And I so clearly remember that last climb. The trees were burning from green into a rapture of red and gold, and I remembered—how I remembered—the way that Leofric had loved the autumn so. I had the last roses of the year and I meant to give them to him, and remembered how he had loved the earth, and the things that grew in it, the things he cultivated with his earth-roughened, gentle hands. The memories blazed as a torrent in my mind as I pushed through the sea of pale dead grass to the hilltop.

I was never told—no one really knew—where his body slept, so I made a makeshift grave as a memorial here at the hill. For it was here that I first felt his death, long before some unknown sword-thrust slew him.

I looked up and the shape of a hawk still soared high above in the sky. He seemed always to be there, the same hawk that had watched me part from my beloved, who had watched over me in sleep countless times. It gave me an odd sort of comfort: something had not changed.

And by staring at him I could almost pretend that nothing else had either.

Kneeling by the mound I had made so long ago I laid the small thorny roses upon it. The thorns made my hands bleed and a few drops found their way, like tears, to the rough-hewn stone upon which I had inscribed his name with an inexperienced hand. I did not want to bring the evermind, our flowers of the dead, because even still I did not want to admit, not aloud, that he was well and truly gone. Let the village folk scorn and whisper as they might. He would have flowers that remembered life, not death, as his memorial. He had planted the rosebush himself when we were but newly wed. Roses were rare in Rohan; he had obtained seeds in Gondor, where he had been stationed for a few months before our meeting, and for two years he cultured them, planting rosebushes all across Rohan to nurture those delicate seeds in anticipation of the day that he would have a home of his own—and a family to share it with. The evening we were wed he took my hand, slipping me away as the celebratory crowd departed, into the wide silver silence of our fields. _Our_ fields. The words were as elation personified within me.

"Ardith," he whispered, clutching my hand in his. And in the soft light of the moon he told me the tale of the seeds he held in his hand, how the roses of Gondor had captivated him so that he must possess some for his own. He had obtained seeds somehow and cared for them so long, carrying them in wait—for me. Carefully we knelt in a corner not far from the house we had raised and dug a small hole in the soft damp earth. There he placed the seed, and I pushed the dirt over it in a little mound. _Like a rose-grave_ flickered through my mind, and I shoved it away, because tonight was no time for such dark thoughts. It was not a grave, it was a womb, I decided, and the rosebush that would grow here would be a testament to our life together. I spoke my thoughts to Leofric and he smiled in the silver-touched darkness and kissed me, sealing this new pledge.

So on that windy September day I laid upon his grave the roses he had planted, and a few tears fell upon my pricked hands. That is all that ever comes, the arbitrary tears, but those tears mean nothing, not even to me.

Our life together had been broken, but the rosebush still grew strong, and my heart ached dully within me every time I looked at it—but not for anything would I cut it down. I preferred the hurting to the numbness, anyway.

And when the deed was done, and a few broken words whispered to the roughly carved stone memorial, I slipped onto the old grey boulder that lay in the field of the hill. I had slept here often in happier times, in the warmth of the sun; stretched on its flat top smoothed by countless years of human use. Once Leofric had surprised me here…in the cool summer dawn when I had crept up to see the sunrise… The memories of days gone by lingered in my mind as I curled on the rock, arms pillowed beneath my head, and slipped into sleep. Dreams filled my mind, dreams sweet and sad, but I will not speak of them to anyone, nor of the other dreams that have haunted my sleep these last ten years, for fear that in the telling there will come forgetting, and grey will creep across the edges and I shall lose those moments, forever held within the stillness of a dream.

_I came home as the sun went down  
__One eye trained upon the ground  
__Even now I find their things  
__Glasses, coins, and golden rings_

As the sun died a fiery death behind the mountains in the distance, the sudden chill of the air pressed me awake, and with a heaviness in my heart I rose from my dreams and put both feet back into the cold heart-winter of life. I treaded slowly down the hill amidst the long-grass, sweet smelling and faded brown in the dimming light. Even now, if I looked carefully, as I neared my fields I could still catch a remnant here and there—things left behind, little ghost-objects with stories I did not want to find. I had not picked them up, but left them for time to hide and the birds to steal. There—there was a silver belt-buckle carved like a rearing horse, and by that mound was a sack of coins, the leather sack rotted away now. Even when I had been in danger of losing the farm I still did not touch those coins, or the various rings I had found, or the ornate dagger now rusting by the edge of the woods. They belonged to dead men, and they were not mine for the taking.

_It's ten years since that ragged army  
__Limped across these fields of mine  
__I gave them bread, I gave them brandy  
__But most of all I gave them time  
__My well is deep, the water pure  
__My streams are fed by mountain lakes  
__I cleaned the brow of many a soldier  
__Dousing for my husband's face_

It was not long after I received the news that the éored came, tramping slowly over my fields, which I had taken little care of that dark year, with their heads up and proud despite the limping of horses and horseless men. I did not know why Leofric was gone away to that dark forever where I could not yet follow, but because of Leofric I could not ignore these men. They were not Leofric's éored—most of them had perished with him and the few straggling survivors had latched onto other followings—but they were soldiers of Helm Hammerhand as well. They fought and died for the same things Leofric fought and died for. And so because I could not thank Leofric for his sacrifice, I understood somehow that I must thank them instead. And I knew even then—I knew they were going to die.

As they first marched across my field, so proud and broken that my heart wept to see them, I took loaves of bread from the ovens and brandy from the storehouse and went out to meet them, baskets on my arms and grief in my heart. There was not enough for every man, though this éored was small and half-defeated, and I wept for those whom I could not tend. Some were wounded, filthy cloth bound hastily around an injury as they fled, and some looked near death. I realised, standing there holding out loaves of bread to hungry men, that I would have it that someone had tended Leofric before he died. These were sons and brothers and husbands and—I placed my hand on my belly where our child grew within me—fathers, and for Leofric's sake tonight I could love them—tend to them—as if they were my own loved ones. I made them stop the night—the barn was large, and there were not so many that there was great discomfort in the close packing of them. I tore strips from worn out dresses and boiled them in vats and cleaned the wounds of many men, binding cuts with cleaner cloth. When the cloth of my old dresses ran out I took to some of Leofric's clothing. He would not need it now, and he would understand what I was doing. But each rip of the cloth tore my heart.

As I cleaned each wound I saw not the strange faces beneath my hands but Leofric's, and he smiled at me. Each wipe of the brow, each binding of a wound, every loaf of bread and flagon of warming brandy was for his memory, though I did not wholly understand so then. It was something I had to do. That was all.

The next morning when the sun put warmth into the sky they came from my barns and gathered their horses and those without horses walked just as proudly as those riding. In the confusion of my heart I pleaded with them not to go, even knowing that they could not shy from peril. Leofric never did, even when running stood between him and death. And so it was with these men, I knew now, as I looked East and saw the smoke rising in a steady trail, coming ever closer, and I saw the fey look in the men's eyes. But they were not afraid. I know now that they were not afraid to die because they believed in what they were dying for.

_And I won't forget our sad farewell  
__And how I ran to climb up that hill  
__Just to watch him walk across the valley  
__And disappear into the trees_

Leofric was a farmer, not a soldier. I thought, with an almost childish half-worship, that he could make anything grow, even in the most barren land. He never wanted to go to war, but when the troubles came to Rohan, so he told me, he knew that he must. I did not understand. His hands had always brought life, and I could not imagine them bringing death. Harder yet it was to imagine them still and grey beneath cold earth. I pled with him not to go, but the fields were dying and every day the smoke rose higher from the lands of the Riddermark and we learned of some new casualty. Little had grown in our fields that year, for the snow had covered the ground from November to March and stunted the harvest. Leofric had lain by a little store from last year, for we had had a good harvest despite the war raging even then, so we did not starve, but others did. There were nights when I made myself go hungry and gave my dinner to those less fortunate. We both wished that there had been even more harvest last year that we would have be able to share so much more. But even the best harvest could not feed all the Mark, and it was all the Mark that suffered. I dreamed of children with ancient eyes and gaunt faces and woke up crying, and Leofric held me against his shoulder until the images went away.

So when Leofric announced that he was going, in my fear I lashed out at him. "I need you here!" I cried, thinking of the nightmares that I must face alone, and quailing at the thought of sitting night after night in my cold house watching the smoke plumes grow yet nearer. I spoke of these things haltingly, and I could see in Leofric's eyes the same pain and longing in my voice, yet still I could not understand. He remained silent for a long time as I spoke brokenly of my fears, and said that I could not understand why he must leave me.

He cupped my face in his hands. They were rough and warm and I closed my eyes. "I do this for you, Ardith," he whispered. "For you and the child within you—no other." Before I could find the words to protest, to question, he touched my lips with one hand and silenced me. "Do you know why men are fighting and dying amidst the rising smoke?" he asked softly. Mute, I shook my head. "Because of the same fears you spoke of, _léofa_. Because their wives and children are starving and their fields yield no fruit. Because the darkness is closing in and the fires burn hotter and deeper and the ashes stretch further and further. Because they see these things and know they must be stopped."

"But there are others—you do not have to—"

"If each man," he whispered, drawing my face very close to his, "thought only of himself, we would have no army."

"But if you die—"

"If I die I will not have died in vain," he said, and I could sense the passion behind his words, a passion I had never seen nor felt in him before. "I will fight for _you_, Ardith. And if I die, it is so you might live free—and our child may grow to adulthood unhampered by fear and hunger."

I still could not understand, not even then. All I could understand was the emptiness in my heart without him. And so the dreaded day came and Leofric, with an old sword he had seldom used before strapped to his waist, bid farewell to me at the door of the house that we had built together. I clutched his hand in my cold one and could not speak as the tears ran down my face. But as he pulled his hand from mine and headed towards the hill that he must cross over I forced one word from my lips: "Wait!"

He turned, and I ran to his side. "I will come with you to the hill," I said. I could not let him go, not yet. As long as I could keep him with me I would. We walked slowly, and I clenched his hand in mine and wondered what would happen if I refused to let it go. I would not mind dying with him if he died. If he died, then what was left for me to live for?

At last, on the top of Reunion Hill, I knew that we must part now. _Reunion Hill_, I thought bitterly as our feet stopped for a moment, and I fell once more into his arms and wept fiercely. It was a cruel name, my heart cried, a cruel name and a cruel fate.

I knew then, somewhere deep that I refused to acknowledge, that there would be no reunion.

Slowly my tears subsided and we fell apart a little. My eyes travelled his face hungrily, memorising every shadow and line to burn them forever into my memory and so keep him with me. "Why must you go?" I asked again, though I did not think even now that his answers would satisfy me.

He smiled a little sadly, and somehow I knew that this question was as hard for him as it was for me. "For your life," he said. "For you, for our child, and for the Riddermark. For freedom."

"Let me come with you," I begged, futilely I knew.

He shook his head and touched one hand to my belly that now began to strain my dress. "No, Ardith. You have fighting to do too, but it is not meant for the battlefield. There are other ways to fight for life, and this must be your way: merely to live and give life. For the child's sake, if not for mine, if I am gone."

"If you die there is nothing to hold me here. There is nothing to live for."

"That is a _lie_," he said, fiercely enough to take me by surprise. "If for nothing else you must live for the child—and for Rohan—and for me. If my death does nothing for you except to take your own life away from you, then you have befouled everything I sacrifice for."

A tear trickled down my nose and dripped off my chin. He brushed it away and his eyes were tender again. "Live, Ardith," he whispered, and kissed my brow. "Live and be proud of me if I do not."

I think then we both knew that he would not.

One last time he kissed me, and I clung to him, feeling safe in his warmth. Then he pulled away and looked at me. His eyes were grieved, but resolute. Without another word he turned and began to walk down the hill. I stood there, numbly still, watching him. As he began to grow fainter, I wrenched out of my stillness and broke into a run, hurling myself through the long-grass to climb to the top of the hill. I stopped there, panting for breath. His figure was still visible, and I watched him walk across the valley between the hills that bordered our farm—and disappear into the trees, out of sight. He was gone. I sank to the ground and wept. The hawk rose above me and circled, like a memory, and in my mind I thought I could hear the tolling of bells.

_Now alone there in a sea of blue  
__Itcircles every afternoon  
A single hawk in God's great sky  
__Looking down with God's own eyes  
__He soars above Reunion Hill  
__I pray he spiral higher still  
__As if from such an altitude  
__He might just keep my love in view_

When I received the news of his death I spent a long time in my chamber with a knife in my hand. I stared at the blade and wondered what it would be like to sink its glittering sharpness into my breast and end this clawing pain. But the child stirred within me then, and I lacked the courage. My hand trembled and I let the blade clatter to the floor.

The éored came and I tended them. They marched away and from Reunion Hill I watched them die, every one, as the Wildmen and the usurpers cut them down. Somehow they did not cross into my fields and burn my home. I wondered why and wished they had. But they were after treasure and revenge, and I had none of these to offer. They left, and I stared at the field of slain and wept. It felt as if the half-promises I had made to Leofric's memory when I tended them had been broken and come to nothing.

In August the child was born: a daughter. Remembering Leofric's words, I named her Feorha, because I knew that Leofric would have wanted me to, but I did not believe in the name. I stared down into her scrunched red face and saw Leofric's eyes. At least I had Leofric's child to preserve his memory, but she would never know the father who died for her and for me on some unknown battlefield and lay in an unmarked grave, if a grave he even had.

Ten years have passed since he left me on Reunion Hill. I do not go there often anymore. It is too hard to stand there and remember. It is spring now, and the war has been over for many years. Rohan is free, but I cannot understand why Leofric's life must be the cost of her freedom. How can I be free without him?

Feorha comes running, calling for me. She is nine summers now, and there is no shadow in her eyes as there is in mine. I turn, and she tells me that the bush has bloomed at last. We watch for it every spring, but when I see those roses I feel their thorns in my heart. They are Leofric's roses, and even after ten years it still aches deep within me that he is not here to tend them.

I touch her shoulder gently and tell her it is bedtime.

"But Módor, the roses—"

"Tomorrow."

She runs down to the house, turning back just once to smile at me with Leofric's smile, her flaxen hair tumbling around her face. Then she disappears into the long-grass, and when I look back, the door is flapping shut.

I glance up into the sky just in time to see the haw soar over me and into the fields of blue above. Perhaps it is not the same hawk that haunted my mourning long ago, but its presence snaps something inside of me.

Ten years.

Ten _years_.

Ten years, and still there is no peace for me. Ten years, and I cannot forgive him. Ten worthless, hopeless years trapped in an existence that belongs with Leofric. He betrayed me. He abandoned me. He marched away on that chill afternoon just when I needed him the most and he never came marching back again. He robbed me of my joy, he let himself die and my heart died on that unknown battlefield far away because he was clutching it tight in both hands and would not let it go.

I only realise now that I am screaming.

"Why did you do this? You knew I could not do this alone! You left me! You robbed Feorha of a father! How dare you—how dare you—" I am running now, screaming and running, wanting to hit something or hold someone tightly as grief and anger and hate burn my vision.

And there it is, staring at me, mocking my pain: Leofric's rosebush. Memories blow through me like an autumn wind. Those roses, so carefully planted across Gondor and Rohan as he cultivated the seeds so that at last he could bring them home to me. The planting, his hand on mine, the soft smell of the earth, and Leofric's own comforting scent. The rose grave.

No womb bore a long-standing love that night.

Choking on my breath, which comes hard and fast and desperate, I reach towards the roses with both hands. My fingers plunge through into the bush's depths and the thorns score my skin and rend my sleeves, but I cannot feel the pain. My heart is bleeding deeper.

A frenzy catches hold of me. Screaming, choking, my vision blurred with tears and rage, I grab handfuls of roses and branches and rip them from the tree. Everything boils over.

"I hate you!" I scream, and rend the bush, my hands bleeding fiercely. "I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!" Over and over, I tear branches and blossoms from the fragile little rosebush, tearing them apart viciously, screaming epithets.

As suddenly as it came, the anger wilts. My hands are rent and blood-spattered. Leofric's rosebush stands before me, tattered and wounded.

I did this.

I killed it.

And perhaps—_no, no!_—perhaps my unwillingness to let go murdered our love as my pent-up hatred had murdered its symbol.

Dropping to my knees amongst the ruin of the rosebush, I begin to sob. Harsh, wracking sobs, as ten years worth of tears course down my face. I taste bitter salt.

I clench my scored and bleeding hands to my breast and sink to the ground. The grass prickles my face, and the scent of the earth pulls my mind back to the night of our wedding. Lying amidst the roses, I let the tears come.

"I love you," I whisper, my voice unsteady. "Don't—I love you—"

The tears bridge the gap between the waking world and the sleeping, and I drift towards blackness. Leofric haunts my dreams.

Morning chill wakes me. I ache from the cold ground. Sitting up, my heart heavy, I am greeted by the reminder of my actions. Pale white blooms lie wilted all around my resting place; all around the forlorn bush that bore them. Fresh tears blur in my eyes. Cradling one of the wounded roses in my bloodied hands, I shut my eyes and hold back grief.

I don't know how long I sit there, but at last I remember Feorha, alone in that silent house. Getting to my feet, I stumble through the long-grass.

"Módor, where have you been?" Feorha's inquisitive face greets me as I open the door. She is up early. I cannot stand her innocent Leofric eyes.

"I was here."

"Módor, the roses—it's tomorrow, and the bush has bloomed, Módor—"

Fear and self-loathing rock me. "No, no," I say desperately. "Not the roses. Not today."

"You promised."

"Not today. Please, Feorha, not today. You can't—you can't pick roses today."

"Why?"

"The hill is blooming too," I cry. I do not want to go to the hill, but anything is better than Feorha seeing the remains of the rosebush; and the grief and the reproof in her eyes—

"But the roses, Módor…"

"The roses will wait," I tell her, almost firmly. "We will go to the hill."

She bounds across the room and grabs her cloak from its hook on the wall.

"Can we not wait for breakfast?"

But she looks at me with Leofric's eyes and I cannot deny her. I sigh and barricade my heart, and we leave the house and slowly make our way towards Reunion Hill.

We reach the top. It is abloom with wildflowers—with life. Feorha bends down in the long-grass, plucking flowers here and there. I sink down onto the ground and wrap my arms around my knees as I draw them up to my chin. The memory of what I have done—what I have said—what I have felt—weights me down.

I stare up at the sky, forgetting Feorha as the hawk soars above me again. It is the same hawk that always taunts me, I am sure now, and the same sky that saw Leofric disappear into the trees and never return again. From that height, I wonder, can he see the faraway field where Leofric died? From that height can he see into the past, before I was alone?

And suddenly the ache returns full-force, harder even than in the mauling of the rosebush, and I begin to sob. Feorha does not hear me; she has gone down the side of the hill in her quest for wildflowers. I wish for a knife. It should end now. I should end it now. There is nothing left and I have lingered here too long.

I cannot live with this struggle inside me—almost hating Leofric for what he did to me, hating myself for what I did to Leofric. And Feorha—did the robbing of her father mean that she had to give up her mother, too?

And then the words fling themselves out of the past and into my heart like a barb.

"You have fighting to do too," Leofric had said, "but it is not meant for the battlefield. There are other ways to fight for life, and this must be your way: merely to live and give life. For the child's sake, if not for mine, if I am gone."

"Not without you," I whisper. "I cannot fight without you."

"If for nothing else you must live for the child—and for Rohan—and for me. If my death does nothing for you except to take your own life away from you, then you have befouled everything I sacrifice for."

I begin to weep harder, and the ice in my heart begins to melt, very slowly. Now a new barb twists in my heart. Have I befouled his sacrifice? He died for me, and for what? I am not free—I am still enthralled. What did he die for?

Yes, I know, remembering the rosebush. He sacrificed and received nothing but anger in return. I never let him go, but that only made him slip further away.

And why are you enthralled? What keeps you from freedom?

I struggle, but the word comes anyway. "Myself."

And as the word passes my lips I understand. As if someone has opened the barriers of my long-guarded heart, burst the dam and let the river wash over my grief, I understand. Leofric had died for me. I knew this then but did not understand it. His death was the greatest gift he could give me, the greatest sacrifice with which he could show his love. I know that he did not love the sword, nor did he love dealing out death with those life-bringing hands of his, but I know now that there are some things that we must give our ultimate for, even if it means death in the end. There are some things that are better to begin than to refuse, even though the end may be dark. There are some things that we must, in all conscience, fight for, or be forever plagued by the thought that we could have and did not. It is worse when we do nothing than if we do something and fail.

Leofric gave his life for me—and for Feorha—and for the Riddermark—on some unnamed plain ten years ago. He gave his life so that we might live. It seems ironic to me even now, but I understand. I understand. Could I have loved a man who ran from the darkness because he did not want it to harm him, instead of fighting it off so that it would not last to harm even more? How had Leofric loved me so when I—and I cringe within myself with shame—had done just this?

Yes, I realise now, I have befouled his sacrifice. Leofric had given me a gift—life—and I had scorned it and yearned for death. He had given me a second gift—love—and that I had stained myself with my selfish hatred. And I had claimed there was nothing to live for when he had given me yet another gift: Feorha. If nothing else was worth living for, she was. If I could not live then Leofric had died for nothing.

Not nothing, the comfort inside me whispers. Rohan will live because of him.

"Be proud of me…" he whispers out of time, and the tears roll down my cheeks.

And he is mine again, mine because I have learned to accept what he did for me and why. Because I can accept his love and give untainted love in return. Someday long in the future I will climb this hill and lay me down in the long-grass and my spirit will flee to join him. But Feorha will be a mother before this happens, and I will be with her. Perhaps I cannot give her as priceless a gift as Leofric gave us, but then perhaps my love is enough. There are other ways to fight for life, and this is my way: to live and give life. I will live.

I touch my hand to my pocket absently, and suddenly feel hardness beneath my fingers. I slip my hand in and eager fingers close around a hard, moist seed.

A rose seed. I do not know where it came from, but here it is in my pocket. Something catches in my throat.

Feorha comes loping up the hill, her arms full of colour. She calls to me and I smile, and for the first time in many long months I laugh. I am free now. There are still scars, scars that perhaps will not even fade with time, but the wounds do not bleed.

I take the seed from my pocket and finger it slowly. As Feorha comes breathless to my side, pressing the flowers to my face and begging me to smell them, I take her hand. "Come," I say. "We have planting to do."

Together we kneel by Leofric's memorial and dig a hole. I hand the seed to Feorha and she sets it in carefully as I push the dirt over it. It is a grave, yes, a grave of my old darkness. But it will become a womb, signifying life. Life.

We stand and I take her hand again and we go back down the hill. I thank the heavens for this precious gift I have found again. I have found life again, I have found my daughter again, I have found Leofric again. The parting was mine.

The hawk gives a farewell cry above me. I turn and stare back at Reunion Hill.

_It must have been late September  
__When last I climbed Reunion Hill_


End file.
